Red—thought. She was tired of living hand to mouth, scraping by on scholarships and her mom’s welfare check, tired of people thinking she couldn’t do anything because she was a poor Indian woman.
She was born to ride bulls. Men got paid good money to do the eight-second dance. Why couldn’t she? She could—the Ranger Circuit was the first step.
And June was on her way.
Amid the shouts and applause from the women in the audience, Mitch jumped into the arena, hat in hand and a grin on his face. “Ma’am, I’m sure I speak for Mort—and us all—when I say that we’re pleased to welcome you with open arms.”
THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING.
From his perch on the platform, Travis stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding below him. Not only had Mort let that girl on Hallowed Ground without a helmet, not only was he going to let her on the Ranger Circuit, not only were the wives down there treating her like she was rodeo royalty—but now Mitch was also down there, bowing and scraping.
Or flirting. Knowing Mitch, he was laying the groundwork for another conquest. They didn’t call him the Heartbreak Kid for nothing.
That girl should not do this. Travis fumed as he watched her gather up her bull rope, shake Mort’s and then Mitch’s hands, and strut out like she owned the damned place. She moved with a grace he hadn’t seen in the arena before, which had the fringe on her sky-blue chaps billowing out behind her like eddies in a stream. It was a beautiful sight—those chaps cupping that backside, her long braid brushing against both of them—one he wanted to savor. She was something a man didn’t see in a bull-riding arena very often—beautiful.
She’d gotten lucky—Hallowed wasn’t on tonight, that was all. And that landing? A once-in-a-lifetime shot to hit the ground running.
No, there was no doubt in his mind that the next time out, she’d regret the day she set foot in an arena. She should not do this, plain and simple. To try again was certain death. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let her die for riding bulls.
“Travis,” Randy Sloap said as he sidled up beside him, “what are you going to do?”
Randy was one of the younger riders, green and eager. Later, Travis would pound Mitch and his Poppa Bear comments into the ground, but that didn’t change the fact that Travis was the senior rider and a lot of these guys looked up to him. He had never been comfortable as a role model but it was a far sight better than the cult following Red was building over there.
Those men disgusted him. Seven guys talking and laughing and groping the hour-glass figure they were cutting through the air with their hands. The bulls weren’t the only things that were going to do that girl in. This was no place for her kind.
“Travis?” Randy was looking at him expectantly, thumbs stuck in his belt loops.
“I’m on it.” Travis scanned the arena—and spotted Mort headed for the front gate, where he’d set up his office in a broom closet. As fast as he could without limping, Travis climbed off the platform and took off.
Mort tried to shut the door in Travis’s face. Tried, and failed.
“You are not letting her on the circuit.” Travis slammed the door behind him. The piece of crap bounced right back open again, but he was too hot to care. “She does not belong here.”
“Travis, please.” Mort settled his sweaty bulk into the folding chair. “I don’t have a choice. If it were up to me, she’d be out of here—”
“Why isn’t it up to you? Ain’t you the boss around here?”
“She had a clean ride. She’s got her TCB permit—”
“She’s got her what?” How the hell had she gotten that?
Mort shuffled the papers on the folding card table. “Here—see? What can I do?”
“J. Spotted Elk,” the photocopy of the Total Championship Bulls membership card said. “Permit status.”
“J.!” That might work for lady writers, but it wouldn’t work here. It couldn’t. “You’re going to let that girl ride on a technicality?”
“Travis, I don’t know what you expect me to do. She even brought a copy of the application form—nowhere does it say ‘men only.’ She had a clean ride, her membership is in good standing and if I don’t let her ride, her uncle...” He let the sentence trail off as he fished out his bandanna and wiped off his forehead. “I’ve got to let her ride.”
“This is how he calls it in? What the hell did he do to make you let a girl ride on our circuit?”
Mort’s face went scarlet as his mouth opened and shut several times. “I— It— He— Look, Travis, this is just the way it is!”
“So that’s it? She rides next week in Texas because some guy pulled your fat from the fire?” Travis had spent two years clawing his way back to the break-even point, putting his body on the line every single weekend—and some pretty little thing was just going to waltz her way into the show on a wink and a favor? Hell, no. Not on his watch.
This had nothing to do with the “pretty” part, either. That’s what Travis told himself. He’d hate to see that face—or that body—messed up by one bad landing, though. One landing was all it took. Nobody knew that better than he did.
Finally, Mort managed to look like he had a spine. “Listen, Younkin, no one said you had to ride with her. Feel free to hobble off into the sunset like you should’ve done in the first place. You can try to talk her out of it, but I doubt you’ll have much luck—just like normal.”
Maybe it was a good thing Travis had hit his weak shoulder tonight, because the fact that he didn’t think he could get off a solid swing was the only thing holding him back. “You rat bastard—”
Mort threw up his hands to ward off the verbal blow. “Be reasonable, man! Didn’t you see the way those women flocked to her like she was a superstar?”
“So?”
“Think about it from my point of view! Don’t you remember that woman race-car driver? She ain’t even the best one out there, and she’s pulling them in!” Mort waved his arms like he was welcoming the women of the world into his office.
This wasn’t about applications or permits or even bull riding. And Mort just confirmed that fact as he went on. “All of a sudden, there’s a woman who rides with the men, and the wives and mothers and daughters are buying tickets to the show, buying pink girl-power T-shirts with her name on them, buying posters that she’ll autograph—”
“You’re going to let her kill herself for money?” Who was he kidding? Of course Mort would. He’d throw his own mother—walker and all—into the ring if he thought he could make a dime off it.
“Have you met the girl? I’m not gonna let her do anything.” Mort snorted. “Look. Either she’ll break a nail and go home, or she’ll do well. And if she does well, she could add to the gate.”
A
